Mimosas and Versace
by Crystalkei
Summary: Trying to extricate themselves from a situation, Clint ruins Natasha's Versace dress. She is not pleased.


"You've been made," Clint said calmly, checking the video feed on his phone. She was so good that if you weren't looking, you wouldn't notice, but he saw Natasha's smile adjust slightly and he knew she'd gotten the message.

She continued chatting away politely while simultaneously looking for a clear exit. He watched her count the number of people in the room, the ones that were likely a threat and he saw the wheels turning in her head as she calculated the risk of going through each one of them. "I love spring in Budapest," she mentioned to the dignitary in front of her. He was the mark she was supposed to be steering towards a discussion about monetary devaluation in China, they really had no interest in that, but this plan involved a convoluted plot to get the guy alone and it started with him getting excited about China.

But a mention of Budapest was her call for help. Not that _she_ called it that. Tasha preferred to say _creativity was needed in the situation._ Whatever it was, he packed up his gear and started through the kitchen, passing bus boys and servers with trays full of brunch hors d'oeuvres. Pivoting on his heel he grabbed one of the servers, slipped the Euros he had in his pocket into the guy's hand and took his tray and jacket.

"Mimosas?" Clint said breaking into the conversation Natasha was trying to get away from. When everyone waved him off, he let the tray slip out of his hands sending glass and liquid everywhere. There were screams of shock as the group of six people all took steps back and Clint apologized. Natasha grabbed his arm forcefully and using her other hand motioned to the orange stains all over her white dress.

"This is a Versace," she exclaimed and Clint suspected that wasn't just her super spy skills. She was genuinely upset. "We're going straight to your supervisor."

"I'm sure that's not necessary," the dignitary said gently but Natasha continued on her rampage.

"I don't know who thought it would be acceptable to hire such an incompetent work force, but where I come from we don't let such sins go unpunished."

As Clint began to squirm, she wasn't holding back and her nails were starting to dig into his arm painfully, the others in the group tried to calm her but she dragged him off. By the time they made it back to the kitchen she still hadn't let up on his arm.

"I'd like to keep that arm, I really like it attached," he said shortly. She continued to steer him through the bustling kitchen.

"Oh, I know you'd like to keep your bow arm, but I wasn't lying, this is Versace. Your cut of this job just dropped 10% to cover the costs," she growled as she finally let go of his arm and they exited the kitchen and started running.

"So I'm supposed to check the label of your clothing before we leave the hotel room? I was trying to get us out of there," he shot back.

"Hey, can I borrow $2000 to cover this dress that came off the spring line?" she replied tersely. They didn't seem to have anyone following so she slowed and he followed suit. "And it makes my ass look fantastic."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Nat, your ass looks fantastic in anything, why give credit to a designer that charged you too much for four feet of fabric?"

"I should break your fingers," she huffed. "You couldn't find better way to interrupt? I shouldn't have even signaled you. I could have gotten myself out of there without you spilling white wine and orange juice all over my new dress, especially considering how easily we got out of there."

"This is why I'll never get married, who spends $2000 on a dress for brunch? "

"That's why you'll never get married?" she said finally cracking a smile. "Because how dare a woman who makes her own money buy a dress she wants? Her money which by the way, is on top of her regular salary at a government agency, the same money that pays for your record collection where you have no problem dropping a grand on a vinyl from someone I've never even heard of." Clint nodded and smiled back. "Not the assassin career choice, the ridiculous hours, the fact that you are completely and totally broken down from the inside out?"

"I'm only partially broken, thank you very much," he joked. "And Skip Jones is worth the money."

"So was this dress," she argued gesturing to the orange splotches that covered the front. "We'll have to finish the job tonight when he goes to the opera, I'm going to warn you now that I'm wearing a very expensive Marc Jacobs, so keep away."

"If I make the kill shot, my cut goes back up to 45%," he challenged her. She didn't even blink.

"Like I'm going to let you do that, I'll end up with blood on the gown. I'll do it," she said matter-of-factly as she walked through the glass doors of the hotel they were staying at.

They both waved at the concierge with smiles and clasped hands on their way to the elevator. As soon as they exited on their floor, Natasha dropped his hand.

"Maybe I'll use those records for throwing, that could be fun," she said with a devilish smile. Clint swallowed.

"You wouldn't," he said anxiously. Once inside the room she turned for him to unzip the frock they'd been arguing about. He unzipped it and tossed his own jacket to the chair as she slipped out of dress and walking to the sink in her matching white lace bra and panties to try and salvage what she could. "You've gotten blood out of worse," he said following her to the sink. He leaned on the counter, almost sitting, and watched her scrub.

"Blood and orange juice are very different," she growled.

"Jesus Christ, I'll buy you a new one," he said turning off the water, taking the ruined garment from her and tossed it on the floor. "It's not like they made only one," she glared at him and sighed. "If they did, I'll just hold a gun to the guy's head and make him pull a new one out of his ass," she lifted her eyebrows at him and he tilted his head at how absurd he sounded. "Okay, maybe I am pretty damaged on the inside." He pointed at her. "But you are just as bad as I am."

"I'm going to shower," she said shaking her head at him. "I have orange juice on my stomach."

"I could help you with that," he said with a half smile, "I mean, it is my fault." She sighed and looked at the clock on the wall.

"Fine, but if this makes you sloppy tonight, I'm changing your cut again."

His brow furrowed. "I'm the sloppy one? You're the one that can't handle a good orgasm." She scoffed as he pulled his shirt over his head. "That is why we stopped having sex before missions, the 23 stitches on your side and the gun shot hole in my arm."

"See," she said unhooking her bra. "You get sloppy."

"Can we agree that _we both_ get a little sloppy?" she threw him a look and turned on the water.

"You know what, put your clothes back on, we'll do this after. We cannot screw this up tonight. We have to leave tomorrow." Clint's shoulders slumped and he adjusted his pants uncomfortably as he exhaled loudly.

"You're right, dammit." He grabbed his shirt from the floor before running a hand over his face. "Why the fuck do I have to have a psych eval anyways?"

"Do you really need to be reminded?" she said from the shower. "S.H.E.I.L.D. requires it before you go back to work, just thank your lucky stars that I called you on these freelance jobs. You would have gone crazy sitting around your apartment."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm gonna reward you with takeout, alright?" he said grabbing a room key and heading for the door.

"As long as you don't bring back any orange juice, I love that idea," she called to him before he left.


End file.
